


good morning waster

by canadinox (canadino)



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8026879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadino/pseuds/canadinox
Summary: Where Murdoc acts as a discombobulated alarm clock and doesn't actually show up in all his entirety.





	good morning waster

**Author's Note:**

> A more accurate tag would be 2D/Murdoc's hands, honestly.

He no longer woke when it happened. The first time, he yelled so loud he was certain the old lady two doors down - who did not move when he asked politely to excuse himself when she was taking up the entire middle of the sidewalk - could hear him, and, well, the hand closest to his face had curled into a fist and punched him in the cheek several times until his shout became closer to a strangled whimper. Now 2D slept through the creepy crawly feeling of fingers and nails and being watched and only sometimes welcomed the new day with the sound of a yawn somewhere on the wall near his ear and the squelch of an eyeball being rubbed with unnecessary force. Ever since Murdoc sneezed during a cross-city bender at the last bank holiday long weekend and catapulted his left hand and navel into another plane and summoned a long squid arm onto the bar counter, he spent long periods projecting bits and pieces of himself into space. Hell power it might be, he had not yet learned nor seemed particularly interested in shifting his whole body through time and space and contented himself peeping through a bloodshot eye on a kitchen cabinet or a hand to nick the last piece of toilet paper. 

There was a paw padding at the pile of dirty clothes underneath the window facing the alleyway and something was opening the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers that held his medical marijuana and yellowing rolling papers. 2D laid very still but certainly someone with Murdoc’s senses, who could smell a cash cow opportunity and a pretty woman’s perfume from within a mob, had already picked up that he was awake. He felt a hand somewhere near his feet and suddenly he was aware there were multiple hands underneath the comforter with him, some not of the human variety. There was a clattering of nails close to his wrist. The brush of knuckles against his right shoulder blade made him shift in discomfort. “You’re too - leggy,” Murdoc told him once back at Kong. “Noodle’s compact and concentrated and Russel just needs the space. But you stretch - and for what?” It was because Murdoc couldn’t grab him and feel like he had 2D in his hands, a wide expanse of limbs still jutting out like wires although 2D had learned to become limp at a touch. 

Absentmindedly - absent of mind - he wondered how Murdoc treated the others when he transmogrified. He imagined Murdoc would tuck Noodle in and water the jade in her room, because she was important enough to build a replica of and thus worth demonstrating care toward. Murdoc generally tended to leave Russel alone, because the man made it clear he was not above exchanging blows when he felt it was justified, but played him with harmless pranks just shy of crossing the line. 2D figured it was why Russel now tended to shake his shoes out before he put them on and kept a hand firmly on the back of any chair he was about to sit in before he actually sat down. A course nail ran itself down 2D’s bicep and he shifted again. If this was some method of Murdoc forcing him out of bed to do his bidding and sing his songs, it was a vaguely effective one. 

The things were shifting with him; instead of bare brushes and mild scratching, he felt a palm dragged flat across the small of his back and grunted as a hand gripped his upper arm hard enough to bruise. To escape meant either to leave, which felt impossible as the hands were patrolling the perimeter of his body, or to withdraw further into himself like a piece of paper being pushed into a loop from both sides. Fingers curled into his thigh. 2D pressed his mouth shut; it was bad enough that Murdoc could make him flinch just by shifting his weight when they were in the same room together, so it was worse if he vocalized it when Murdoc wasn’t even in the same space. Something with claws was holding his left ankle down - so much for the bolt option. 

The hand on his thigh relaxed and flattened and it was true then, like he suspected, that the hands were not connected to any arms. They were free-moving remote-controlled hands, empty from the wrists up, just like the CGI scenes in the flicks he liked to play under the covers when Murdoc’s groans seeped through the walls. Those nights, the building settled a little louder as Russel struggled for sleep through thick earplugs. Zombies shuffled into his mind and shuffled back out as the hand seemed to slip and struggle to find its hold on his bony leg and fell into the crevice with its fingers pointing true North toward his crotch. 

2D bucked then, a combination of being caught off guard and horror, and the grip on his ankle nearly dislocated his foot. The movement slid the hand further up between his thighs, Murdoc’s unkept nails poking into his balls through his underwear. He had had morning wood that had softened somewhat after realizing Murdoc was poking around his room remotely; the sudden hit of adrenaline had sent a rush to his pink bits and the unlucky sound of a rumble of laughter deep in Murdoc’s throat matched the interest the fingertips were paying him.

2D slept in his underwear because it was comfortable that way and he was sensitive to the cold besides, but Murdoc would definitely be looking into his room now and he was glad he kept his comforter pulled up to his chin every night. 

He knew Murdoc didn’t like him being so tall because Murdoc said so himself. He spent most of his time at Kong doped up and easily distracted by the things that moved along the walls in the hallway. Murdoc had passed by once and slapped his ass, adding a pinch for good measure because he was a heathen, and then scowled and slapped him again without the sexual intent. “Waste of space,” Murdoc called him, and even in his stupor 2D recognized it was about the space that Murdoc didn’t also inhabit and at the time, he thought it was endearing. He tore his attention away from the pulsing in the concrete and hobbled along after Murdoc. 

Now - Murdoc could replicate and multiply and there were two vice grips at his shoulders, thumbs pressing painfully into nerves. A slender, pink arm and hand appeared and gripped the comforter; 2D feared it would throw it off and let the cold air in - they hadn’t paid the gas bill for heat in months - but it only lifted it up higher so he could look down where Murdoc’s sickly hued hand was kneading him. 

(Something 2D doesn’t dwell too long about, from back in their early weeks in Kong: Noodle picking up Murdoc’s things trailing from the recording studio to the garage where his Winnebago was housed, because they were taking up the walkway outside her room, and she had been about to return them to him and passed them. And Russel had plucked the DVD from the top of her stack, unbeknownst to her, and handed it back to 2D. The DVD cover promised good, good times to be had with the undead. 2D had thrown it out into the graveyard from the window in his room, too ashamed to watch it again. It had been one of his favorites.)

Another slender hand appeared now, manicured this time in pale lavender, and it reached over and took the waistband of 2D’s briefs. His own fingers twitched now, and a hand shot out of nowhere and gripped his right wrist with enough strength as a warning. The manicured hand lifted the waistband, striking the same visual as the pink hand holding up his covers, 2D’s cock sticky against his hip. Murdoc’s hand scampered up like a spider crab, ghosting against his sides and almost making him laugh, and buried itself under the briefs tent. 

2D’s experiences with Murdoc’s hand usually involved very intimate contact with knuckles and occasionally nails raking at him to try and dig out his already bloodshot eyes, but there had been very, very early high-fives and rare pats on the back or the shoulder. Murdoc’s hands were calloused from years of playing bass and holding bottles and - that - grip was nothing to shake a finger at. 2D’s toes curled, his pulse jumping also from holding his breath. His back arched right off the mattress, digging the back of his head deeper into the pillow, and that hand was stroking him fast and sure, jerky and unpredictable. 

Murdoc’s guttural purr came back, with an insult on anyone’s lips, a praise on his - pretty boy - and 2D squeezed his eyes shut, riding the slow ascent. It was every height in the score when the heroine in the movie went down in the dark basement where she heard a noise. It was the steady beat toward the bass drop. It was the perpetual hope when he was gazed upon, for longer than it took to let a curse slide off that long tongue or when the windup for a blow did not happen, whether the next thing that might be said would be an apology. 

And right at the top, Murdoc suddenly stopped and let him go, his palm slick, and the hands retreated, cockroaches in the light. The comforter fell back onto him, dizzy-headed from arousal and a biological reminder to take his morning Vicodin. He was aware he was the only one in his room again. Something somewhere in the apartment fell with a loud crash. 2D almost fell off the bed and stumbled to the bathroom.

**Author's Note:**

> You know where I am when you come to drag me for writing band fic.


End file.
